Desired by All and He Threw Away 128

Dylan’s POV 

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My apartment smells like old pizza and last night’s whiskey. I’m hunched over the laptop, the blue light making everything look sick. My thumb keeps hitting refresh. Refresh. Nothing. 

The chat with Ruby is dead. My last three messages just sit there with those stupid little “read” receipts underneath them. No reply. I called her twice. Straight to voicemail. 

She blocked me. 

“Useless,” I spit out. The word tastes like acid. 

Plan A is dead. The inside job, the footage, the perfect little betrayal–gone. She either got scared or Taylor got to her. Doesn’t matter. My wiretap into their perfect world just went silent. 

I shove back from the desk, the chair screeching. Pacing this dump does nothing. My eyes catch the cracked trophy on the floor. A relic from when people actually listened to me. 

They all choose him. 

The thought burns through me. Taylor. The investors. Now even some messed–up kid chooses him over me. 

A laugh scrapes out of my throat. I look at my own face on that faded poster, grinning like an idiot. “Pathetic,” I tell him. “You let them do this.” 

The boardroom call. The silence after. The headlines praising Aiden’s big comeback. It all boils down to one thing now. It’s not about winning. It’s not even about proving their relationship is fake. 

It’s about salt. 

If I’m going down, I’m taking her with me. And I’m making sure he gets burned too. 

I drop back into the chair. My fingers hover over the keys. No more waiting for some scared girl. No more playing nice. 

I open an encrypted chat. A few names from the old days–people who don’t ask questions if the money’s right. 

Need everything on Taylor. The physio. School, jobs, family. Dig until it’s dirty. 

I attach what’s left of my money. My last real bet. 

The stuff comes back in pieces over the next few hours. A patchwork of a life I can tear apart. 

First, school records. Not so perfect. A whole semester missing senior year. “Withdrawal due to family circumstances.” I zoom in. A slow smile spreads. It’s a crack. Just a crack, but I can pour poison in it. Did she even finish? What’s she hiding? A Cinderella with a conveniently messy past. 

Next, jobs. Gyms, community centers… then it. A six–month–old line: part–time at Velocity Sports Therapy. My pulse kicks. Velocity is bankrolled by Gregor Holdings–one of Aiden’s family’s direct competitors. A boring fact. Until I make it interesting. 

My fingers fly. While dating Aiden? Or right before? Coincidence? Or was she gathering intel? Simple girl from a 

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Chapter 128 

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struggling family… or a plant? I don’t need proof. I just need the question. The stink. 

Finally, the good part. Clips from that sickening livestream. I cut them up. Taylor laughing up at him. His hand on her elbow. The fall. That loaded look afterward. I edit it mean–cutting context, slowing it down, zooming in until every smile looks fake, every touch looks calculated. I set it to a creepy track, slap on big red text: 

CALCULATED DESCENT: The Making of a “Girlfriend” 

FROM PHYSIO TO PRINCESS: The Steps She Took 

WHAT HE ISN’T SEEING 

I package it all–the education doubts, the “spy” theory, the edited video. A complete character kill kit. I send it to three of the nastiest gossip channels I know, the ones that live for this shit. The payment is my last big wire. 

I lean back. The adrenaline tastes like metal. I don’t need Ruby anymore. I’ve got something better: doubt. I’ll plant so much doubt around Taylor that Aiden’s money and his pretty face won’t be able to wash it off. Let him try to defend a liar. A gold–digger. A traitor. Let him get dirty. 

My phone buzzes. A confirmation. The first post is live. Then another. And another. 

I open a public tab, refresh the main gossip page. There it is. My story, chewed up and spit out in three different, ugly ways. The comments are already rolling in. 

“Whoa, knew she was too good to be true.” 

“So she’s basically a spy?” 

“Aiden needs to run.” 

“This is messy.” 

I watch the numbers climb, the shares multiply. I don’t feel happy. I feel cold. Quiet. This is destruction. The real 

kind. 

They thought they weathered the storm with that stupid livestream. They thought they won. 

I close my eyes, a tired smirk on my face. 

“You have no idea,” I whisper to the empty, stinking room, “what a storm really is.” 

Taylor POV 

My phone buzzed, a persistent, angry rattle against my thigh. I pulled it out. The screen was a wall of noise- notifications, tags, unknown numbers. A digital ambush. 

“The Truth About Taylor’s Past…” 

“Shocking Details Revealed…” 

>> 

The headlines were arrows aimed at old scars. My past–the night shifts, the dropped classes, the desperate jobs -was being twisted into something ugly. Spying. The absurdity almost choked me. 

Aiden was already moving, his face hardening. “Legal team. Now.” 

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Chapter 128 

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Then my father’s ringtone cut through–the jarring, old alarm I never changed. I swiped to answer. “What.” 

“Taylor.” His voice was rough with sleep and something meaner. “There’s people outside. With cameras.” 

I could picture him at the door, squinting like the world was a personal insult. “And?” 

“They’re yelling your name! And that Aiden?!” His anger was the familiar, useless kind. “Who the hell is he? Is he here? In my house?” 

The old habit rose–to soothe, to fix his discomfort. To apologize for existing loudly enough to disturb him. 

I didn’t. 

“They’re reporters,” I said, voice flat. “About me. Not you.” 

Silence. Then a baffled rage. “They’re on my property!” 

“Call the cops then.” The words came out clean, final. “I’m handling it.” 

The line went dead for a beat. Muffled shouts filtered through. His voice returned, weaker. “Just… make it stop. I’ve got enough problems.”